I used to write with my hands,
then came a different tool.
Pulling out the paper,
then spitting out the fuel.
Word after word,
I left them all behind.
Punctuation held me,
like I did before she died.
Now wrapped in plastic,
nature took it's course.
Into my skin,
the tool began it's force.
Once used for knowledge, hardship and dismay,
bringing me ever closer to my six foot cashay.
Depression held my hand,
warm as a her broken bones.
Warm as the blade side,
from my tool's razor tone.
Beginning to cry my first red tear,
My sight sent notice and I started to fear.
Pain took me over,
causing me to flail.
I'll always remember,
her wagging tail...

.The poem and drawing are about two years old.